


Te wo tsunaide

by Silmariën (Starrie_Wolf), Starrie_Wolf



Series: Te wo Tsunaide [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: And then there be London, Benihime worldbuilding, Captain!Urahara, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Lieutenant!Ichigo, M/M, Post-TYBW, Rebuilding Soul Society, When in doubt: Hollows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-06-28 14:38:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19814365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/pseuds/Silmari%C3%ABn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/pseuds/Starrie_Wolf
Summary: This job is an offer he cannot refuse, but Kurosaki Ichigo is agifthe is honoured to accept.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheshireCaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCaine/gifts).



> _Te wo tsunaide_ i.e. _To hold your hand_

Two bags.

Kisuke surveys the place one last time, the barrenness of the shop interior mocking him silently.

A century of exile, and all his belongings fit into two bags.

The crinkle of paper is so loud in the echoing silence. Kisuke exhales, forces himself to uncrumple the note. It’s a deceptively simple summons; so simple that Yoruichi and Kūkaku have more than once suggested he simply ignore it.

But Kisuke knows better.

Perhaps their station has shielded them, even the princess of the Covert Corps, but Kisuke knows very well that this is the sort of offer that leaves no room for refusal.

But what is he supposed to do with a division, after all this time? Kurotsuchi, the great old cockroach, is still alive and kicking – and the Gotei does not need two research institutes.

He turns around at the sound of the door sliding open.

“Congratulations,” Ichigo says. He’s not smiling, his eyes glinting under his mess of spiky hair. Kisuke has no doubt that should he hint at it, Ichigo will be marching into Soul Society within the hour, zanpakutō unsheathed.

Kisuke gives a slight shake of his head.

No, he has a good idea why he’s being called back, now of all times – when he had been left alone after Aizen’s defeat. The upper echelons lay in shambles, most of the surviving captains critically injured, and with Unohana amongst the dead they cannot be certain everyone would recover.

They need _one_ captain alive and standing, in case another one of Soul Society’s numerous ancient enemies come knocking.

Kyōraku must be at the end of his tether to summon him back like this. But then, he truly _is_ , isn’t he? It has been but a mere week since the end of the war, and there are at least three separate political strongholds to wrangle, on top of all the rebuilding he must oversee. The new Sōtaichō would not have even had the time to mourn for his old mentor or his lover yet.

Kisuke chews on his lip, glad that the motion is hidden behind his fan.

“Why, come to visit this humble shopkeeper, Kurosaki-san?”

Ichigo sighs.

“Stop deflecting, Urahara-san.”

The smirk slips off his face. He must be losing his touch. Or maybe it’s just Ichigo –

“Thank you,” he admits.

Ichigo doesn’t ask if he’s insane, which is far better than everyone else already. “Is this what you really want to do?” he asks instead.

Kisuke opens his mouth to lie –

“No,” slips out instead, and he can’t tell who’s more surprised at the confession, Ichigo or him. “But it’s something I have to do regardless of my feelings, or anyone’s on the matter.”

Ichigo doesn’t try to talk him out of it or point out that Kisuke isn’t beholden to the Gotei anymore, like Yoruichi and Kūkaku have tried.

“Then I’m going with you.”

At first, Kisuke thinks he must have misheard.

“What?” he asks faintly.

“I said, I’m going with you,” Ichigo repeats patiently, as though the matter is already settled.

Kisuke is seldom at a loss for words, but none of his – _nothing_ has prepared him for this outcome.

Ichigo’s mulish expression doesn’t waver, even when the silence drags on, far longer than would have been considered socially acceptable.

Kisuke draws in a breath. “I cannot possibly –”

“This isn’t an offer you can turn down either,” Ichigo refutes.

He would _beg_ to differ. “There is the matter of your human university –”

Ichigo shakes his head. “I want to study English Literature, but I can do that anywhere – besides, the Globe Theatre is just a Senkaimon away, and who knows?” He shrugs, the motion careless despite the momentous decision he is making. “Maybe I’ll be lucky, and I’ll run into William Shakespeare in Soul Society or something. Besides, I’ve talked to some people who did an English degree, and I _really_ don’t want to have to study Paradise Lost nine times.” He holds up his hands for emphasis, nine fingers outstretched. “ _Nine_.”

This is not a spur-of-the-moment decision, he can see that now, but Kisuke feels the need to protest one more time. “Kurosaki-san –”

“I have done more for people I didn’t know half as well as you,” Ichigo snaps. “Much less than somebody I consider more than a friend.”

Kisuke stares, at a complete loss for words. Normally he would argue that Ichigo doesn’t know him at all, except – he does, doesn’t he? He’s picked up enough, here and there in the three years since they’ve known each other, to be able to piece together the unsavoury elements of Kisuke’s past. And yet, Ichigo still treats Kisuke the exact same way, with none of the wariness the older shinigami display towards him, the suspicion Kisuke more-than deserves.

It’s been a week since the end of the war, and Ichigo has been coming around every day, ostensibly using the peace and quiet of Kisuke’s kitchen to catch up with his missed studies. More often than not, though, he spends that time sitting next to Kisuke, reading the news coming in from Seireitei, his hand resting on Kisuke’s knee.

Some nights, he stays over.

The tips of Ichigo’s ears are burning, and he finally cracks. “Also, somebody has to make sure you eat, and sleep –”

It breaks the mood just enough for Kisuke to muster up a rejoinder. “I was not aware that you are my mother now.”

“It’s not like Tessai-san will be there,” Ichigo points out. “So you’ll have to make do with me.”

There are many things Kisuke can say in response, chief amongst them how Ichigo is now as important to him as Tessai or Yoruichi, but he swallows all of them. “If they offer you a captaincy, demur,” he says instead, and waits for Ichigo to nod. “Inform anyone who asks that you are there to help them out because they are your friends.”

For some reason, that makes Ichigo smile a little to himself.

“Does something amuse you, Kurosaki-san?”

“No, just –” Ichigo gives a quick shake of his head. “Nevermind.” He casts around rather obviously for a change of topic, and his gaze catches on the note Kisuke’s still clutching in one hand. “So, Urahara-taichō?”

Kisuke used to hate that title. At first, it was a reminder of the way he always seemed to be a beat behind everyone else, an imposter under that white cloak; and then, later, a reminder of everything he couldn’t fix, everyone he couldn’t save.

Somehow, the suffix doesn’t sound so bad coming out of Ichigo’s mouth.

☆☆☆☆☆

There’s no farewell party, no fancy affair. Kisuke’s departure from the Transient World is as unremarked upon as his entrance. What’s different is Ichigo a few paces behind him, bidding Karin and Yuzu goodbye.

“Will you have enough to eat?” He can hear Yuzu fretting, followed by the rustle of a paper bag. “Ichi-nii, here, I’ve made you some taiyaki, so you’ll have something to eat on the way if you’re hungry!”

A touch upon his shoulder is his only warning before another paper bag is shoved into his hand.

“Here you go too, Urahara-san!” Yuzu covers her mouth in dismay. “Ah, I mean… Urahara-taichō?”

“Ah – thank you,” Kisuke manages to say on sheer autopilot. His mind is completely blank.

She… gave him food.

Kurosaki Yuzu will probably never know what this means to someone like him, someone who grew up in Rukongai –

Ichigo squeezes his shoulder gently, reminding him that he’s still standing in front of the girl, and that he should really say something.

Luckily, he has the perfect return gift.

“I am certain your brother will miss you very much, and will very much welcome letters from you and Karin-san.” Kisuke fumbles in his bag, finally locating the prototype he’s spent the whole night building. “Think of this as a mailbox. If you roll up your letters and place them inside, Ichigo will be able to get them.”

Yuzu stares up at him for a moment before throwing her arms around him.

Kisuke glances helplessly at Ichigo, only to find Ichigo watching them with this soft smile on his face that makes Kisuke’s heart incongruously skip a beat.

“Although,” Yuzu mumbles into his samue, “this is too small! I won’t be able to fit anything bigger than some sweets inside!”

… perhaps he should have taken her propensity for cooking into account.

“I’ll make the next version bigger,” he promises as she lets him go, and Yuzu grins brightly at him.

Ichigo hoists his full haversack onto his shoulders, another luggage on wheels standing next to him. Kisuke really has to admire the creativity of humans sometimes. Lacking the strength to carry heavy loads, they invent the most ingenuous devices instead of conceding to their limitations.

“We need to go,” he reminds his sisters gently, and Yuzu’s face crumples in an instant.

It’s Karin who takes her by the hand and nods at Ichigo. “Kick their asses, Ichi-nii!”

“Ah, we’re not fighting anyone, the war’s over –” Ichigo tries to explain, but Karin just shakes her head.

“That’s what you said all through primary school and middle school,” she points out, “and the bullies kept coming anyway. So kick their asses when the next ones turn up!”

Prophetic, but… not exactly wrong, he would say.

Kisuke averts his eyes politely as Ichigo hugs Yuzu one more time and ruffles Karin’s hair, and then steps up next to Kisuke. “Ready?” he asks.

In response, Kisuke takes a deep breath, and raises Benihime horizontally in a manoeuvre he never thought he’d be performing again. His zanpakutō hangs in the air for a brief moment, and Kisuke feels the sudden, visceral terror that he’s miscalculated, that all of this has been a terrible joke and he won’t be able to do it after all – but then Benihime turns like a key in a lock and the familiar shōji doors of a Senkaimon slide open.

“Race you through the Dangai?”

Kisuke blinks. Although the Kōtotsu that Aizen had previously destroyed has since then reformed, there is an official Gotei jigoku-chō fluttering in front of them, and there should be no need to –

“Ready? One, two –”

And then Ichigo was off like an arrow from a string, his luggage bouncing behind him.

Kisuke hesitates just another moment, but, well –

How long has it been since his last game of tag?

There’s no one around to see them anyway, he consoles himself.

Ichigo wins, but Kisuke likes to believe it’s because he got a head start.

☆☆☆☆☆

They tumble out of the Senkaimon in a mess of limbs and bags, almost colliding with each other. Kisuke bids any remaining shred of his dignity a silent goodbye, because even he can’t make tripping out of the Senkaimon, carrying two heavy packs and trying to avoid Ichigo’s sprawling limbs, a graceful affair.

He forces down the stirrings of embarrassment at the sight of Kyōraku-sōtaichō himself standing on the Senkaimon arrival platform, something white tucked under one arm. Kyōraku is over a thousand years old; he’s seen far worse than something like this.

“Good, you’re here.” Unlike his predecessor, Kyōraku doesn’t waste time on posturing and small talk. “Urahara-taichō, put on your haori. You are reporting straight to your division; they need you as soon as you can make it.”

There’s a flicker of surprise and unease that Kisuke cannot fully suppress. His division has already been assigned? But he wasn’t informed –

“Which one is it?” Ichigo asks. He’s taken a step in front of Kisuke, and Kisuke doubts he realises he’s unconsciously dropped into a defensive posture. Kisuke breathes out and consciously forces himself to relax.

He’s fine. He’s not alone. Ichigo may not be Yoruichi, but he is no less fiercely protective – even more, Kisuke suspects, given what Ichigo had been willing to do for a girl he’s known for less than a month – of the ones he loves.

Kyōraku sighs. His wide-brimmed straw hat is nowhere to be seen today, the pink floral haori Kisuke has never seen him without switched to the sombre white one of the Sōtaichō.

“I am not Yama-jii,” he tells them plainly. “Believe me when I say I will not have summoned you in such a fashion if I did not truly believe it necessary.” He looks away from them, down the cliff at Seireitei spread out beneath them. “The division in question is in ruins, with no leadership and no one capable of it, but one that we are relying on at this moment.”

“You want me to take the Fourth.”

Ichigo jumps a little, turning to stare at Kisuke. Kisuke can understand the disbelief in his gaze, for the same disbelief must be mirrored on his own face.

Kyōraku nods.

Kisuke paces over to the edge of the platform, brushing a hand over Ichigo’s hip as he passes. Seireitei lies in ruins far below them, buildings collapsed and entire streets still buried beneath rubble, faint tendrils of smoke curling lazily towards the sky.

It’s been a week since Yhwach’s death, and rebuilding efforts must be underway – but this far up, it’s obvious that they need _time_.

He knows why Kyōraku summoned him back, now.

But he has Ichigo with him, and that makes him bold enough to take a leap of faith – literally. “Race you to the bottom,” he says without turning around, and jumps over the cliff before he can second-guess himself.

Ichigo’s outraged squawk is the sweetest sound he’s heard that whole day.

Kisuke lands first this time, Ichigo a close second, and they’re both surprised by a thump that is Kyōraku landing next to the two of them. When Kisuke looks over, the Sōtaichō is shaking his head, trying to brush his windswept hair into something more presentable.

Ichigo is grinning, his eyes bright with delight, and Kisuke spares a moment to admire the rosy tint to his cheeks before he sets off towards the Fourth. It is located conveniently next to the Senkaimon, a holdover from the bygone era when the Gotei had enough medics to regularly respond to distress calls from the Transient World.

In contrast to the sleepy silence of the rest of Seireitei, the division compound is a nest of activity. Kisuke halts before he is barrelled down by a squad of running shinigami, rolls of freshly-dried bandages spilling from their arms as they stampede towards the main building.

“Sōtaichō-dono!” An elderly man hobbles towards them. As he draws near, Kisuke can see that his white hair is streaked with soot and dust, like he hasn’t even had the time to shower since the war ended. “Please, we need any help you can spare –”

He’s interrupted by a messenger running out of the doors. “Miyamoto-yon-seki, we need you in operating room one, Isane-fukutaichō just collapsed –”

Miyamoto is gone without a backwards glance.

The messenger blinks, and only then does he seem to notice the white haoris that they are wearing. His eyes widen to the size of saucers. “Tai-taichō-dono…” He stutters to a stop, takes an obvious deep breath, and continues explaining. “She’s been operating non-stop for the past six days –”

Kyōraku holds up a hand, turning to Kisuke. “Urahara-taichō, if you would please.” It’s not an order, not quite, Kisuke notes. He still _has_ the option of declining, of choosing another division, and with Ichigo standing at his back, Kyōraku would acquiesce to that demand. But…

“It would be a great favour to us indeed if you could save one of the Kenpachis.”

Kisuke hesitates just another moment longer, but he’s old enough to know when he’s already made up his mind, even when he shouldn’t.

Still, he has to cover his bases. “Sōtaichō-dono,” he begins carefully, not letting any hint of his thoughts show on his face. “You must understand that I cannot possibly guarantee –”

“I am aware,” Kyōraku interrupts, “but nevertheless, a chance is already better than what Zaraki has right now.”

Kisuke tugs the brim of his hat lower, shadowing his eyes so that he doesn’t have to fake a smile. “Show me to where Unohana-taichō had previously parked her bankai, and bring out Zaraki-taichō,” he instructs the messenger, who is still standing there. An unseated fresh graduate from the Academy, by the look of his uniform. But Kisuke has no time to spare to be kind, there’s still –

Ichigo touches his elbow gently. “I’ll take care of it.”

It takes Kisuke a moment to organise the whirling thoughts in his mind into some kind of coherency. “The most injured –”

Ichigo’s hand is still on his arm, and he squeezes it again to get Kisuke’s attention. “Triage, I know. Just leave it to me.”

He’s been trusting Ichigo for so long that Kisuke doesn’t think he can do anything else; is almost insulted by the words.

“Always.”

☆☆☆☆☆

Unohana, apparently, does her intensive healing on the back lawn of the Fourth, the same place where she conducts her weekly ikebana hobby sessions. Any other time and Kisuke would stop to appreciate the dual utility of this wide space, but not right now.

Zaraki is already laid out on a pallet, six shinigami arrayed around him. The Divine Purification Barrier, judging from the colour of the kaidō, but it seems weaker than the variant Tessai and Hachigen usually use, like the casters are running low on reiatsu.

He looks around, but there’s only one pallet laid out.

“Kusajishi-fukutaichō?” he demands. If Zaraki had been in battle, Kisuke cannot imagine her being far behind.

“They can’t give me a straight answer,” Ichigo tells him, poking his head through the door leading to the lawn. “Something about Zaraki’s bankai possessing her, or _was_ her, or something – in any case, nobody knows where she is.” He consults the clipboard he’s holding. “Can you handle two at a time?”

Kisuke studies Zaraki more closely. “Not him,” he decides. “He’s critically injured, and he’ll be fighting me every step of the way. But someone with less reiatsu or is less injured... up to three, perhaps.”

Ichigo nods and backs away, already engrossed in scribbling something down on the clipboard.

Kisuke settles into seiza, folding his legs underneath him and closing his eyes. He can faintly sense Zaraki in front of him, a far cry from the usual inferno that surrounds him. He’s close to death, yes, but he’s still stubbornly clinging on to life, and what he really needs is a little help.

“Ban- _KAI_ : Kannonbiraki Aratame Benihime.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s easy to lose himself in the rhythm, to lose count of the number of shinigami that passes beneath Benihime’s hands.

“Kisuke. _Kisuke_.”

He blinks.

Ichigo. Why’s Ichigo there?

He must’ve made some kind of questioning noise, for Ichigo is talking again. “We’re done, the regular shinigami can handle the rest – Kisuke?”

It’s... warm. He’s warm, like a bonfire on a winter’s night, a blaze Kisuke could sit next to for hours just to warm his hands.

“Kisuke, you need to at least eat something before you pass out, or it’ll be worse when you wake up –”

A pause.

Softer, then – “Guess I didn’t need to ask them to make so much... s’pose even if you grew up with Yoruichi-san, you don’t react the same way to reiatsu exhaustion, huh.”

Is Ichigo talking to him? It doesn’t sound like a question, but Kisuke makes an agreeable hum anyway.

His nose twitches. Cream. Something heavier than the usual miso...

“Corn soup. From Hokkaido – what’s the Soul Society version of Hokkaido, anyway? All I see are Edo era stuff around. Surely you do get people from outside Tokyo; Ichimaru had a Kansai accent, and Iba switches to Hiroshima dialect whenever he gets drunk...”

The bowl is tipped at an angle that brings the sweet warm liquid to his lips.

Kisuke swallows obediently, until all of the broth is gone. His head is getting too heavy to lift, and there’s an arm wrapped around his shoulders. He doesn’t have to subconsciously keep watch when Ichigo is right there.

Fingers card once through his hair.

“Sleep, I’ve got you.”

He sleeps.

☆☆☆☆☆

His eyes snap open before he even realises that he’s awake.

Kisuke blinks the sleep from his eyes, wary. He’s been truly unconscious, sleeping like the dead rather than the light rest he’s been accustomed to, and for a moment panic grips at his throat.

Something stirs behind him, like the awakening of a volcano.

“You’re still in the Fourth,” Ichigo drawls, his voice a sleepy mumble. “This is the private recovery suite that – that’s meant for captains, but Zaraki can handle a night in the common area with the rest of his squad.”

“Situation?” Kisuke says – or means to say, anyway. What comes out is a sound so hoarse he’s not sure Ichigo can even understand it at first.

He’s about to try again when Ichigo hums, sounding vaguely more awake. “You’ve taken care of all the ones in critical condition; they were taking up the bulk of the manpower. With those freed up, the rest of the Fourth settle nicely into three shifts. There’s at least two senior seated officers on duty during any shift; I’ve told them to come straight here if there’s an emergency, but they won’t be bothering us otherwise.” There’s the rustle of fabric, like he’s turning around. “It’s four in the morning, everything’s settled. Go back to sleep.”

Kisuke really should protest, but there’s an arm slung over his waist and a vast ocean of reiatsu pressed up against him, the dips and swells of the waves lapping gently at his back, and sleep is a siren call he cannot resist.

The next time he awakens, it’s to the sound of something he _absolutely did not miss_.

“What is it?” groans Ichigo, struggling to sit up. The shirt he’s sleeping in is slipping off one shoulder, baring a generous amount of pectoral, and it takes Kisuke actual effort to tear his gaze away. “Are we being invaded again?”

“Worse,” Kisuke mutters, finally managing to look at Ichigo’s eyes instead of any lower. “That’s the summons for a captain’s meeting.” He puts a hand on Ichigo’s sternum before the other man could get up. “No, go back to sleep. I had, what, fourteen hours?”

“Twelve,” Ichigo corrects, fumbling for his phone.

“Twelve hours,” Kisuke acquiesces. “Most of which you spent re-organising my division so that it’s functional. You deserve the rest.”

Ichigo looks like he wants to protest, but the gigantic yawn betrays him. “Just a bit more, then,” he grudgingly admits. “Call if you need me.” He pats his phone, putting it down next to his pillow.

Kisuke makes a noise of agreement, though he intends to do nothing of the sort. Ichigo doesn’t deserve to be awoken for anything less than another invasion; and even then Kisuke will try to make do without him.

He looks around the room, finding his captain’s haori laying over the back of one of the chairs. Now that he’s seeing the room in the light of the day, he realises that it’s just a tiny alcove, barely 4.5 jo in size. No wonder Ichigo’s futon is pressed up all the way against his; the room isn’t built for two occupants.

He has a feeling he knows exactly who this room was built for.

The second bell tolls, alerting all captains to begin making their way to the meeting hall. Kisuke fumbles for his haori, glad that nobody has undressed him fully the night before; he’s not sure his sleep-drunk fingers can manage the ties of a hakama right now.

Given where he is, it’s best if the Sōtaichō doesn’t have cause to come looking for him.

☆☆☆☆☆

There’s a distinct sense of _disconnect_ when Kisuke walks into the meeting hall, the déjà vu so strong that for a moment he feels the urge to scratch the back of his head and grin foppishly. Kisuke smothers that urge and snaps his fan open instead, glad that he’s chosen to bring both that and his hat along. Unusual accoutrements for a captain, certainly, but the current Sōtaichō has no leg to stand on.

“Captains,” Kyōraku announces with very little aplomb, “I present to you, Urahara Kisuke, the new Captain of the Fourth.”

It’s short, succinct, and completely unlike the way Yamamoto would’ve done it – but Kyōraku is not Yamamoto.

It is also customary for a new captain to give a short speech, but Kisuke feels that Kyōraku will appreciate it if he skips that part of tradition as well. He bows properly to the other captains in attendance – only six, and Abarai-fukutaichō standing in his captain’s stead – and moves to take his place in the line-up.

Suì-Fēng buzzes like a particularly riled-up hornet next to him, but Kisuke cannot possibly change the way the line-up works just to please her delicate sensibilities.

“Urahara-taichō.” Kyōraku clears his throat. “How has your division fared the past three days?”

Three days? And he’s been asleep for twelve hours, which means that he has been working for nearly sixty hours before that. Not the longest he’s been awake, but definitely one of the most reiatsu-draining. He hasn’t even seen most of the division yet, but Kyōraku’s clearly waiting for a full report here.

“As expected,” Suì-Fēng mutters, before Kisuke could speak.

“It has only been three days,” Hirako drawls, which surprises Kisuke a little. He hasn’t expected anyone to stand up for him. “During which Urahara has probably been with Zaraki. It would be asking for a miracle to expect him to have had the time to reorganise his division yet –”

Suì-Fēng sniffs. “Be as it may. But what else can we expect from a lazy, incompetent –”

“The Fourth remains in a state of heightened activity, but I am happy to announce that the situation is no longer an emergency.” Kisuke draws a sheaf of papers out from his pocket, flipping it over to the second page. He has no idea when Ichigo had found the time to write a three-page report on the situation, but it was lying on top of his haori earlier and Kisuke scanned through the contents on the way over. “The roster has been revamped to ensure that all members are scheduled rest breaks at regular intervals, triage is complete, and patients have all been assigned to the appropriate medical team based on the severity of their injuries. Of the injured, Zaraki-taichō and Muguruma-taichō’s situations remain critical, but neither of them is in any life-threatening danger. We expect them to awaken any day now.”

He unfolds the third sheet, handing it to Abarai beside him. “I have here the estimated numbers per division of those who have been discharged, are currently admitted, and deceased. The detailed list is, unfortunately, back at the Fourth.” Kisuke looks up, quirking a brow. “I imagine that my fellow captains would prefer to peruse the name lists at their leisure instead of standing here for the next three hours while I read all the names out.”

He really needs to buy Ichigo a nice dinner tonight.

Kyōraku dismisses them soon after, and Kisuke winces at the bright morning light. The sun has risen while they were cooped up in the meeting hall, and now glares at them from above. He shields his eyes, turning around to get his bearings –

“Hey.”

Kisuke squints, but there’s no mistaking that voice. “Ichigo?” The meeting hasn’t taken that long, surely, why is Ichigo up and about –

“We need breakfast,” Ichigo informs him, “and a place to stay, unless you feel like moving into Unohana-san’s old quarters?”

He has the audacity to laugh when Kisuke adamantly shakes his head.

☆☆☆☆☆

Decades of having an entire house to call his own has spoiled him, Kisuke muses, cringing as he withdraws his head from the room.

He’s certainly not missed life in the barracks, that’s for certain. Fourth or not, men will be men, and that means a distinct lack of self hygiene. Kisuke has gotten unfortunately attached to his sense of smell, and he would like to keep it that way.

Ichigo is leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest. He looks amused.

“No?” he confirms.

“No,” Kisuke says decisively, turning to head out of the barracks. Surely there are houses in need of tenants nearby that are less... odorous.

He pulls up short when he steps out of the division compound.

Right, the Quincies.

Much of the street is still covered in rubble, and it looks like every division not otherwise occupied with different duties is on the streets, helping with the rebuilding.

He could –

Ichigo’s hand wraps around his wrist before he can reach for Benihime to help the process along.

“Don’t you dare.”

Grudgingly, Kisuke relents. There’s no dissuading Ichigo when he gets like that. He ducks into the nearest inn that looks to be still operational instead.

Ichigo yelps and almost falls over, and then apparently suddenly realises he’s still holding Kisuke’s wrist. Cheeks dusted a gorgeous pink, he lets go hastily. Kisuke waits a polite moment to see if he intends to transfer the grip to his hand instead, but Ichigo seems to be far too embarrassed to make another attempt at the moment.

The proprietor, a kindly-looking old lady, greets them at the door and apologies for the poor fare. “Half the supply routes are impassable right now,” she explains with another regretful bow. “I am afraid we cannot serve distinguished guests what you may be used to.”

Kisuke waves off her apologies with a smile. “Whatever you have on hand will do, madam proprietor.”

As she bustles off to inform the cook, Ichigo has a sudden thought.

“If the supply routes are closed, then what about the mess hall in the Fourth?”

Kisuke looks up sharply.

“What have you been eating for the past two days?”

Ichigo colours slightly. “I, ah – someone always brings a bento over and leaves it at the desk so that I can eat while working, so I haven’t actually seen the mess yet?”

Kisuke taps his closed fan against the dining table.

“My apologies,” he calls out to the proprietor as she returns. “Could we trouble you for a moment longer – how many nearby dining establishments are still operational at the moment?”

“Just us, taichō-san,” she says with some bewilderment, “and Matsuda’s on the next street over.”

Kisuke nods. That’s about what he expects, judging from the state of the streets.

“Then, if we can trouble your fine establishment and Matsuda-san’s, to please serve anyone from the division across the street as well as those hard at work rebuilding the streets as much food and drink as they may require. Bill all your expenses to the Gotei.” Kyōraku will not argue, he thinks.

Ichigo’s eyes widen, as do the proprietor’s.

“Some of the ones doing the rebuilding are not you shinigami,” she says carefully.

“And yet they are suffering the aftermath of a shinigami war,” Kisuke parries. “Food and drink is the least we can offer, poor recompense it may be.”

The proprietor is looking at him like she’s never seen someone like him before. She bows, far deeper than the courtesy greeting previously. “Then we must thank you for your custom and your kindness.”

Just then, the cook comes bustling out with their lunch, and the proprietor excuses herself to have a whispered conference with him.

Kisuke politely tunes them out – they are not so quiet that he cannot hear what they are saying, even without using reiatsu to sharpen his hearing – and digs in.

He pauses at the burst of flavour on his tongue, surprised at how hungry he actually is. Looks like it is a good call on Ichigo’s part to insist they eat first, after all.

“Is there anything else we can help with?” The proprietor is back, although the question appears to have been meant as a simple gesture of politeness.

“Actually, there is one more matter.” Kisuke sets his chopsticks down. “I am afraid my companion and I have just arrived in Soul Society and have not yet located lodgings; would you be able to recommend something nearby?”

“In fact –” a thought strikes him, and he turns to Ichigo “– where have _you_ been sleeping?”

“Pallet in the office,” Ichigo mumbles through a mouthful of rice. He swallows, and Kisuke allows himself a moment of weakness to watch the way Ichigo’s Adam’s apple bobs at the motion. “It’s been a mess, with every senior seated officer busy in one operating room or another, nobody was keeping records of who went where. I had to do the patient list by hand, and then figure out who’s still standing, and then sort out Unohana-san and Isane-san’s desks. Why the hell is there so much _useless_ paperwork in a war?”

For the first time, the proprietor seems to realise exactly who they are. “ _You_ are Unohana-sama’s successor?”

Kisuke nods with a wry smile. “My apologies for not introducing myself earlier, my name is Urahara Kisuke, filling in for Unohana-taichō’s absence as much as I am capable, though my skills are poor and incomparable.”

As expected, Ichigo snorts and adds pointedly, “And yet, there lie thirty shinigami who will be walking out of the Fourth alive because of you.”

“Twenty-seven,” corrects Kisuke. He’s kept count.

The proprietor’s eyes are as wide as saucers. Kisuke continues eating, knowing that she will be able to draw her own conclusions.

Just as he is setting down his empty bowl, she gets up from her seat at the counter.

“Old Genkei who ran the taiyaki shop on the corner, bless his heart, perished in the first wave of conflict. He is without heirs, and the house now stands empty. He will be most pleased to have it bequeathed to Urahara-taichō in such a manner, methinks.”

“Our most sincere gratitude, and we will be certain to erect a house shrine in his honour at the first opportunity,” Kisuke assures her.

She leads them to the house in question, whose door hangs at an awkward angle off its hinges but looks structurally intact, and leaves them to it.

Walking into something in the setup of a shop soothes Kisuke unbelievably, in ways he cannot quantify. He says a quick prayer to the former owner of the house, bowing formally for his kindness, and brings his luggage further into the backroom. With some renovation, they can even build another expanded basement within the week.

“You are _such_ a master of manipulation,” Ichigo informs him, but he sounds rather more admiring than upset.

In lieu of an answer, Kisuke smacks him in the ass.

Ichigo jumps, his cheeks darkening, looking both pleased and embarrassed.

“To wait for new ones to be built will take months,” Kisuke points out, “and you refuse to let me use my bankai to speed up the process. An existing house with no owner is the only answer, unless you particularly enjoy the smell of unwashed bodies?”

It’s also far smaller than the Shōten, most of the floor space dominated by the cooking area, but that just means it’s easier to clean now that he does not have the benefit of dedicated cleaners. Perhaps he can ask Tessai to bring the kids along once a week or so.

“So, Urahara-taichō by day, humble shopkeeper by night?”

Ichigo doesn’t look put off by the size of the house, wheeling his luggage into what is clearly the bedroom. Kisuke conceals a grin behind his fan.

“And, pray tell, Ichigo-san – when do you think I will have the time to learn how to make taiyaki?”

Ichigo shrugs. He’s already poking through the doors, bowing respectfully at each entrance for the necessary intrusion. “I don’t know, but it’s you we’re talking about, Urahara ‘can accomplish anything in forty-eight hours’ Kisuke.”

The house is a modest affair, a bedroom, a bathroom and a dining area that can double as a workspace, but it is relatively clean and immediately liveable. For good measure, Kisuke locates a few of the fresh Academy graduates, the ones who had yet to learn any healing techniques before war broke out and had been relegated to playing messenger before he and Ichigo arrived, and bribes them with human world candy to tidy up the house.

It feels like _home_ , Kisuke doesn’t say, but he knows Ichigo hears it anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sexual content near end of the chapter (after Goro-chan's arc).

Their second week in, Komamura-taichō leaves in the middle of the night.

“Go ahead,” Kisuke tells Ichigo over breakfast.

Ichigo stamps the last sheet with his left hand and drops it onto Kisuke’s pile, his right hand steadily moving food into his mouth. Seated beside him, Kisuke is eating with his left and signing each sheet with his right. It’s a production line they worked out a few days into their partnership.

“You sure?” he confirms, but Kisuke can tell it’s just a courtesy.

“The patient load is a quarter of what it used to be, and Zaraki is well enough to be discharged today. You’d best be conveniently away.”

Ichigo laughs, which he suspects is what Kisuke had hoped.

“Worried we’ll break your division?”

“ _Our_ division,” Kisuke corrects, not looking up from his papers, and therefore completely missing the happy grin that spreads across Ichigo’s face. “And yes, please refrain from undoing all my hard work.”

“He started it,” Ichigo points out, not untruly, but concedes with a huff. “All right, I’ll try to be home early enough to cook, but I’ll send a butterfly if Iba needs me later than I thought. Don’t forget to pick up the laundry on your way home, will you?”

Kisuke nods distractedly, getting up to deposit his bowl in the sink.

Ichigo rummages through the icebox, mentally making a grocery shopping list.

☆

_“It’s a fridge,” he had pointed out to Kisuke when they first got one._

_“Icebox,” Kisuke had countered, and Ichigo might have been a tad too distracted by the way his grey eyes sparkled to remember to retort._

☆

He walks back into the bedroom to get changed, still deciding between oyakodon and gyudon for dinner, and is therefore completely blindsided when he slides the door open and the first thing he sees is _skin_.

He closes his mouth, checks discreetly for drool, but he can’t tear his eyes from the way muscles ripple as Kisuke bends to retrieve his hakama from a drawer.

His fingers itch to explore the expanse of bare skin, the way the fundoshi – like all traditional Japanese underwear – hides nothing from the back.

“Don’t you need to be at the Seventh in five minutes?” Kisuke asks without turning around.

Ichigo sighs, but he knows Kisuke is right.

Maybe later. The past two weeks have been so hectic that every spare moment is better spent asleep than doing anything else, but like Kisuke said, it’s quietening down.

If he gets home early enough, maybe he’ll even have the time for a good shower.

☆☆☆☆☆

Iba does, unfortunately, need Ichigo for longer than he’s thought, but not for any of the reasons Ichigo is expecting.

“Paperwork can wait!” he tells Ichigo as he ushers him out of the office, closing the door firmly on a tower of papers that reach the ceiling.

From the floor, not the table.

“It’s all leftovers from the war, and Kyōraku-sōtaichō doesn’t really care anyway.”

He holds up a leash, manly tears rolling down his cheeks. “But poor Goro-chan! He needs a loving home willing to take him in right away!”

“What,” Ichigo says flatly.

Iba shoves a half-open bag of dog food into his arms, kneeling to clip the leash onto a frankly gorgeous dog. “Look at him,” he moans. “Poor thing, Komamura-taichō must’ve been heartbroken when he wasn’t allowed to bring him.”

Goro-chan whines quietly.

What follows is the most bizarre series of situations Ichigo has ever been involved in, and he’s counting that time Rukia co-opted him into the Seireitei Film Festival.

“Sorry,” Renji tells them when Iba shows up at his office door. “The Kuchiki Clan doesn’t approve of pets, so I can’t take him in. Taichō won’t even let Rukia keep her bunnies, you know?”

“I can’t.” Hisagi raises both hands, as if trying to physically ward Iba off. “I’m in the middle of trying to achieve bankai, so that I’ll be allowed to keep the Ninth, I won’t be home long enough to take a dog on walks –”

Matsumoto is actually pretty willing, cooing over Goro-chan and exclaiming over how soft his fur is, and Ichigo for a moment thought their search is over, until –

“MATSUMOTO! _The dog ate it_ is not a valid excuse for not finishing your paperwork!”

Iba sighs and they beat a hasty retreat before Tōshirō can unleash his shikai on Goro-chan or worse, them.

“Guess it’s a bust,” Iba mutters, coiling the leash around his arm so that Goro-chan won’t run too far.

Ichigo privately thinks the entire affair is a bust, but Iba just looks so upset that he can’t find the heart to dissuade him from his endeavours. If this is what Iba needs to cope with Komamura’s sudden departure, then as a good friend Ichigo will help him.

“Oho? What have we here?”

Though, perhaps not _this_ kind of help.

“Nothing,” Ichigo tells Mayuri firmly. He isn’t sure where the captain of the Twelfth has come from, and isn’t sure if he wants to know. What he does know is that Mayuri can’t possibly want Goro-chan for anything good.

“It would do well as a mammalian substitute for my experiments,” Mayuri explains, a wide grin stretched across his face.

Ichigo barely hides a shudder of revulsion. Yeah, _no_.

They skedaddle quickly.

Yumichika usher them out almost the moment they set foot in the Eleventh – the one place nearby that even Mayuri won’t easily set foot into. “He’s still upset about losing Yachiru,” he hisses. “Don’t bring small seemingly-defenceless beings near him right now.”

As if to accentuate that point, there’s a humongous crash right behind him. Someone who looks suspiciously like Ikkaku – yes, that’s definitely Ikkaku’s voice he’s hearing – comes flying past, but Yumichika doesn’t spare him a backwards glance.

“Get out of here unless you want to be dragged into a brawl,” he advises, jerking his chin at Ichigo. “And maybe get Urahara down to take a look later.”

At a loss of what else to do, Ichigo nods.

“Now _go_!”

They obediently swing by the Fourth, and with a start Ichigo realises that the lanterns are getting lit all along the streets. The sun is setting, and restorative works are grinding to a halt. Damn it, never mind getting home early enough for a shower, it looks like he’s not even going to make it home in time for dinner.

“Sorry about that,” he tells Kisuke.

Kisuke shakes his head, smiling. He doesn’t look remotely perturbed by the fact a lieutenant just burst into his office begging him to adopt a dog, nor that Iba is literally prostrating himself on the floor right now, extolling the virtues of Goro-chan.

“I’m afraid we simply cannot have pets at the Fourth,” he tells Iba when the latter winds down. “We must take care of our patients, and some of them may be allergic to animals. Therefore, Ichigo cannot take him either.”

“Oh...” Iba wilts, and Ichigo startles. Right, even _he_ is a potential target, isn’t he?

“However, why don’t you adopt him yourself, Iba-fukutaichō?” Kisuke continues. “Goro-chan is already used to the Seventh, it will be a shame to force him to lose his home on top of his beloved owner.”

Huh?

Ichigo would’ve thought there is some reason Iba can’t adopt Goro, hence the entire debacle – but Iba didn’t even think of himself?

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“This calls for a party!”

Ichigo doesn’t even know how, but he ends up being invited to a Shinigami Men’s Association dinner party, on account of… if he’s understanding Iba’s sobbing right, being a good bro? Even Kisuke gets an invitation, which apparently surprises even Iba himself. Ichigo can only assume he didn’t actually _mean_ to blurt out that second invitation.

“I have to drop by the Eleventh later,” Kisuke demurs into the awkward silence. “Zaraki-taichō may require my assistance.”

Iba nods, and even Ichigo can tell he looks rather relieved. He’s a little torn, though. It would be great to see all his friends again, but on the other hand, he’s the unofficial co-lieutenant of the Fourth, this seems like a situation he should be present for.

Kisuke touches his elbow lightly. “It may actually be for the better if you give it a miss, lest Zaraki-taichō decides to get into a fight with you again,” he says, still smiling, and it’s even a real smile rather than one of his fake smiles. “Let me know where the party is, I’ll send Ikkaku-san over after the healing is done.”

Ichigo is grateful for the consideration. All the same, he bemoans the fact that he’s probably not getting laid that night.

☆☆☆☆☆

He groans, flailing towards consciousness. A part of him wants to go back to sleep, but a not-insubstantial part feels… _good_ , like –

Oh.

Ichigo freezes, blushing.

His morning wood protests the sudden cessation of movement, but Ichigo is too embarrassed to care. How did he even get all the way out of his futon and on top of Kisuke?

Ichigo takes a peek at Kisuke’s face, and then groans again. Of _course_ Kisuke has to be awake, he berates himself, there’s no way someone can sleep through having someone else rutting their morning wood against their thigh. Kisuke didn’t even drink anything last night.

Unlike him. He… may have gotten a little more than tipsy last night, he admits, and apparently drunk Ichigo thinks drunk Renji has good ideas.

☆

_Ichigo slammed his cup down on the table. He didn’t remember how many he’d had already, someone – Iba, or maybe somebody else, he was losing count – had kept the sake bottles flowing, and Ichigo was sure he saw both Kyōraku and Matsumoto-san somewhere in the tavern._

_“God damn it,” he groaned. “How the hell do you get someone to sleep with you?”_

_Renji, the only person nearby still vaguely upright, actually spit half his sake out. “He hasn’t jumped you yet?” he demanded. “Don’t you two sleep in the same room?”_

_Ichigo laid his forehead down on the table. “We do...” he moaned._

_Renji gave him a slow, slow once-over. “If you were my type, I’d have done you the second day you moved in,” he pointed out, which did not help Ichigo’s confidence at all._

_There was a long pause. Yumichika swung by, annoyingly preppy even though Ichigo was sure he’d been drinking as much as the rest of them, and plunked down another pair of bottles on the table._

_“You should take your shirt off when you’re kissing,” Renji advised._

_Ichigo started shaking his head and slamming it against the table. Renji wasn’t that drunk if he still had the presence of mind to rescue the new sake bottles, he thought uncharitably._

_“… what do you mean, you haven’t even had time to kiss?!”_

☆

He covers his face with another heartfelt groan. He _can’t_ believe what he did last night.

☆

_“Ta-daiiima,” Ichigo slurred, catching himself on the floor before he tipped over. Sandals had never been so difficult before. He should wear geta. Simple, slip-on geta, and it wasn’t like they didn’t already have three pairs at home –_

_He triumphed over the footwear and followed the sound of the “Okaeri!” into the dining room._

_Mmmmm._

_Kisuke was seated on the tatami mats, brush in hand and paperwork all over the table._

_Ichigo licked his lips._

_Kisuke looked... good. He’d taken off the haori and the uniform, and was sitting there in a sleeping robe, so carelessly belted that a large swathe of his chest was bared._

_He told Kisuke as much._

_Kisuke blinked._

_It was sudden very imperative that they be touching._

_The room tilted dangerously when he took his hand off of the wall, but Ichigo overcame that little obstacle too, moving Kisuke’s arm aside to climb into his lap._

_Mmm, Kisuke smelled good too. He must’ve just had a shower; his hair was still a little damp._

_“Hi,” Ichigo said, a little breathless._

_Kisuke’s arms had automatically come up to support his waist. He didn’t lose the placid, unflappable demeanour, which was good, because the room was kind of spinning and Ichigo really needed an anchor._

_“You’re drunk,” he observed._

_It was on the tip of his tongue to disagree, but Ichigo couldn’t actually remember how many bottles of sake he’d had._

_“Maybe,” he acquiesced._

☆

Ichigo is half-afraid to turn his head around, lest he sees the evidence of last night, the abandoned brush atop that incomplete pile of paperwork, the splatters of ink when Ichigo had grown too impatient to wait for Kisuke to finish. He remembers, with another blush, how he simply plucked the brush out of Kisuke’s hand and shoved the table away so that he can climb into Kisuke’s lap and make out with him.

The memory of that kiss sends a little shiver down his spine. Kisuke had been, ah, _enthusiastic_ in his response, and it’s not helping the situation in his pants.

Although, now that he’s sober, something stands out to him. Ichigo groans and smacks his forehead against Kisuke’s shoulder.

“You were never going to do me when I hadn’t cleaned up, were you?”

“Nope.” Kisuke sounds vaguely amused. At least _one_ of them finds all of this funny. Ichigo is just mortified.

“Also –” something else strikes Ichigo “– damn, we don’t even have lube, of course not.”

He smacks his own forehead again for good measure.

He really should get up, and get _off_ Kisuke – no, not that way, damn it –

His cock gives an interested twitch at the idea.

“... do we have anything important to handle this morning?”

“Not unless Zaraki-taichō managed to get into another fight in the last six hours, no.”

Ichigo shudders at the very thought.

Kisuke’s face is impassive, but something hard nudges hopefully at Ichigo’s thigh at the movement.

Experimentally, Ichigo grinds down a little. He’s still clumsier than usual, still part sleep-drunk and maybe real-drunk, but his cock doesn’t seem to care and evidently neither does Kisuke. He grips Kisuke’s shoulders, rocking their hips together. Fuck it, he decides, he’ll do the laundry later, if it means that he can get to _have this_ right now...

A black butterfly lands on his nose.

“Oh, for –”

Evidently taking that as acknowledgement, the jigoku-chō flaps its wings once and Kyōraku’s voice issues from it.

“Kurosaki-san, please report immediately to my office.”

Ichigo groans.

The butterfly flaps its wings again idly.

“It wants a return message,” Kisuke tells him quietly. God, he doesn’t even sound affected, even though Ichigo can still _feel_ how interested he would be to continue their previous activities. “Here, tell it, ‘message from Kurosaki Ichigo to whoever it’s from, understood’.”

“Message from Kurosaki Ichigo to Kyōraku Shunsui, understood,” Ichigo repeats dully.

“The _Sōtaichō_?” Kisuke asks with some surprise.

“Yeah,” Ichigo sighs. Damn, he’s still at least half-hard, and it’s not helped by the fact that he seems to be missing his fundoshi entirely and is kind of smearing precome over Kisuke’s bare thigh. “He wants to see me right now, apparently.”

Kisuke hums in thought.

Without warning, he sits up – just like that, with Ichigo still lying on top of him, and Ichigo can’t even tell if it’s the sudden change in position or the sudden shock of _lust_ that has his head spinning.

Then there’s a hand wrapped around his shaft, another hand shifting him nearer, and Ichigo’s eyes fly open when Kisuke changes his grip to hold both of their cocks with one hand.

Kisuke doesn’t give him any time to adjust, just starts a pace that can only be loosely described as _brutal_ , hard fast strokes that has Ichigo clinging onto his shoulders for dear life, practically bouncing in his lap from the force.

Ichigo doesn’t stand a chance.

He may have gasped something that’s a garbled version of Kisuke’s name as he comes, his vision actually whiting out briefly.

When he can force his eyes open again, it’s to see Kisuke propping himself up on his elbows, idly rubbing the shaft of his cock like he’s got all the time in the world to finish himself off.

Ichigo squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his teeth, and then very determinedly levers himself off Kisuke without taking another look.

Okay, maybe one quick peek.

He spins on his heel and hurries from the room.

☆☆☆☆☆

Five minutes later, he’s not smiling anymore.

Kyōraku’s hands are clasped beneath his chin, several stray hairs escaping from his ponytail to fall into his face. He doesn’t say anything.

Ichigo reads the letter again, slower, as if hoping in vain that he’s just misread the contents the first time. He has no such luck, of course.

“We were foolish to think Aizen had no backup plans.” Kyōraku sighs. His brown hair is threaded through with silver, Ichigo suddenly notices, as if the war and his abrupt ascension to this position has caused him to age far too much in far too little a time. He wonders briefly how long it will take for Kyōraku to resemble Yamamoto, and then drags himself away from that banal train of thought.

The letter is short, dashed off in a hurried hand that makes some of the characters barely legible, but the gist is clear: the Arrancar were not Aizen’s first Hollow experiments, only his most successful – because they were sentient. They could be reasoned with. They could obey orders. But now, the product of his past failures have escaped whatever deep dark dungeon Aizen had left them in, and Las Noches has been overrun.

Ichigo’s fists clench. “When do I leave?”

“Now, if possible.” Kyōraku gestures at the bare wall. “I cannot spare you any additional aid, I am afraid –”

“No, it’s fine,” Ichigo interrupts. More than half the captains are dead or still injured, isn’t that why Kyōraku had summoned Kisuke back in the first place?

Kisuke.

“Can I…” he gestures vaguely at the cage of Hell Butterflies on Kyōraku’s desk.

“Certainly,” the Sōtaichō acquiesces, pushing the cage nearer.

Ichigo tugs the door open, sticking his finger into the cage. The nearest butterflies flit away, startled, their powdery wings brushing against his hand. Ichigo grits his teeth against his impatience and forces himself to stay still. He’s seen enough people use these over the years to know roughly what to do.

One of the butterflies finally lands on his finger.

“To Urahara Kisuke, from Kurosaki Ichigo,” he tells the butterfly. “Hey, so I need to go to Hueco Mundo for a bit, a bunch of Aizen’s old experiments escaped and Harribel needs some help with pest control. I’ll see you when I get back, yeah?” He pauses, and sheepishly adds, “End message.”

The butterfly takes off from his finger and flutters out of the window.

Ichigo nods at Kyōraku, turns to face the wall, and _pulls_. A Garganta swirls into existence, the threads of reality giving way under the swell of Ichigo’s Hollow powers. He steps through, and begins to run.

☆☆☆☆☆

Five minutes later, Kisuke jumps through the window, sees the office devoid of anyone but the Sōtaichō, and _curses_.

“If he’s not back by tomorrow, I’m going after him,” he warns Kyōraku.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image credit: Bleach Brave Souls


	4. Chapter 4

Ichigo awakens with a shout.

He’s completely immobilised, he realises immediately, his reflexive thrashing aborted by expertly-tied ropes.

Despite the situation, he’s also completely calm, and it takes a long, long moment for his conscious mind to catch up with what his subconscious has known this whole time. The room is saturated with Kisuke’s reiatsu, to the point where even the walls are glowing with a faint reddish tint. He squints at his left arm, the only limb he can see, and of course that’s Benihime’s handiwork, he’ll recognise her anywhere.

“Please,” he croaks, his voice so hoarse that he surprises even himself. “Let me see you.”

There’s a pause, and then a careful shuffle of cloth against tatami, until Kisuke’s distinct green samue comes into view, along with his knee and part of his hip.

“How are you feeling?” Kisuke asks quietly.

“What...” Ichigo clears his throat. Simply talking is so tiring he can scarcely believe it.

“Shh.” Kisuke takes a seat beside him, just within view, and strokes a hand soothingly through his hair. “Don’t try to talk right now. You were quite badly injured.”

Ichigo wets his lips, feeling the cracked skin beneath his tongue. His head’s a mess; he can’t seem to remember what happened, or why his entire back feels like it’s on fire.

Wait, is he _actually_ on fire?!

Ichigo immediately chides himself for that ludicrous thought. Kisuke will certainly not be sitting there idly if Ichigo is on fire... he thinks. He hopes. Maybe he should check –

“Don’t move,” Kisuke warns, squeezing his shoulder.

His... bare shoulder.

Ichigo reflects briefly that he should probably have noticed much sooner; but in his defence, he feels like he’s been run over by a mob and then dragged behind a bullet train for a while.

“Why,” he coughs, trying for sultry and instead sounding like he’s been swallowing gravel, “decided you can’t wait any longer? I’m not saying I mind, but I didn’t expect to wake up naked and all tied up –”

His voice dies in his throat, and he almost chokes on it.

Kisuke grimaces slightly, swiping at his eyes with the back of the hand that’s not touching Ichigo. “Apologies.”

He – what –

Ichigo would pinch himself if he isn’t completely immobile right now. “Are – are you okay?” he demands.

He tries to rack his brains for what could’ve upset someone as unflappable as Kisuke to the point of tears, but his memories stubbornly elude him. “Is Yoruichi-san okay?”

Kisuke blinks, his mask already back in place. He looks completely thrown by the question. “I... presume so?”

“Then... Tessai-san, or the kids?” Although Ichigo can’t imagine what could have befallen them. Weren’t all the Hollows in Hueco Mundo?

_There is no sun in Las Noches, but keen eyes catch sight of a glint of steel –_

Ichigo winces at the sharp pain in his head, gone as quickly as the sensation – the _memory_ itself.

Kisuke shakes his head slowly, a strange look on his face. “It’s not –” he starts, and then uncharacteristically hesitates. “They’re fine.”

Ichigo is at a loss. He’s _sure_ that list covers all the people whom Kisuke cares deeply for… then why…

“You were dead when I found you.”

“... what?”

Ichigo struggles to turn his head, to look Kisuke in the eye, but Kisuke’s staring down at the floor.

“The Sōtaichō had convinced me that Harribel had only asked for you, that I should trust you to handle it on your own.” Kisuke’s voice is wooden, what little Ichigo can see of his face like porcelain.

Blank, but fragile.

“I waited a day, until Isane-fukutaichō is well enough to take over the running of the division, before I headed to Hueco Mundo.”

Kisuke doesn’t stutter, but his voice hitches a tiny bit like it’s a near thing.

“If it wasn’t for the amount of residual reiatsu I could still sense in the area, I wouldn’t have recognised you.”

Ichigo frowns. Couldn’t find him, maybe, but couldn’t _recognise_ him? That seems like a very strange problem to have –

_An animalistic growl tearing through his throat, a Cero blooming between his horns –_

Ichigo jerks against his restraints so hard his vision temporarily whites out from the pain.

“Ichigo?” He blinks, and Kisuke is suddenly kneeling in front of him, both hands on Ichigo’s shoulders. “Ichigo, talk to me, what’s wrong –”

Ichigo pants, gasping for air. He feels like he’s drowning, like he can’t breathe, because he recognises this gap in his memories now. He’s experienced it once before, back when Aizen was still a threat, back when he – when Ulquiorra –

“Ichigo. _Breathe_.”

He’s startled enough to suck in a breath, and that somehow calms him enough for him swallow against the panic. Kisuke’s reiatsu blankets the room in slow, soothing waves that lap against his skin, heavy enough to be a noticeable presence, but not so constricting that he feels trapped.

Ichigo stops struggling, but he doesn’t dare to look up. He remembers, all too well, the way Ishida and Inoue had looked at him after Ulquiorra’s death. He doesn’t know how he’ll cope if he sees the same look in Kisuke’s eyes –

“I was a –” he starts, and then hesitates.

“You were a Hollow,” Kisuke finishes the sentence, dashing any faint hope Ichigo might’ve had that Kisuke hasn’t seen that form. “A Vasto Lorde, I believe.”

The silence grows, more awkward than Ichigo has ever remembered it being between them.

He closes his eyes. So this is it, then. He supposes he’d better pack his bags, maybe find another place to live if Kisuke’s still willing to work with him after seeing the kind of _monster_ Ichigo can become –

“Long hair suits you.”

Ichigo can swear he _hears_ his thought processes come to a screeching halt.

“What?” he asks faintly.

He twists his neck up to meet Kisuke’s eyes, and only belatedly remembers why that’s a bad idea, but – there’s none of the revulsion or fear he’s been expecting. If anything, Kisuke looks faintly worried, and even as Ichigo stares at him wondering if he’s now hearing things, Kisuke runs a hand carefully through Ichigo’s hair.

“You should think about growing it out.”

Maybe he’s actually dead and all of this is a hallucination. He’s read about something like this before in one of his English Literature books, he thinks.

If that’s the case, it’s a good death-dream.

“You said I was dead,” Ichigo muses morbidly. “Why am I, well, not-dead now?”

Kisuke hesitates.

Ichigo barks out a short laugh. So even his subconscious can’t think of a good enough lie to explain that contradiction? “You can just say it, you know,” he prompts. “I’m not going to be upset or anything.”

“Well,” Kisuke says, still eyeing him cautiously, “that would be because I, uh, stitched your soul back into your body.”

Wait, what?

“I’m sorry,” Kisuke says, before Ichigo can voice any of his thoughts. “I know it’s an unforgiveable violation – I just... lost control –”

Ichigo finds his voice again. “Say that again?”

Kisuke stops. Takes a deep breath. “I saw you go down,” he admits, his voice as distant and formal as if he’s making a report, “and felt your reiatsu vanish. I –” his voice just barely hitched “– activated bankai, destroyed the remaining Hollows, and there was just enough of an imprint of your life force in your body for me to reattach your soul to it.”

Ichigo doesn’t think his subconscious is capable of making this up if he _tried_. He’s just not that creative.

“So I’m not dead after all?” he demands, at the same time when Kisuke presses his forehead into the tatami mats and begins, “I know that I cannot hope to ever make amends –”

They both stop talking at the same time.

“No, you are very much alive, Kurosaki-san.” It’s Kisuke who breaks the silence, his tone dripping with apology, but Ichigo has no idea what he’s apologising _for_.

He says as much to Kisuke, whose reiatsu flickers with unconcealed surprise. “I violated the sanctity of your soul –”

“To save my life!” Ichigo interrupts. He’s sure that there’s no way he can conjure up a death-dream this convoluted, which means this _has_ to be real. “Why would I blame you for that?” He barrels on before Kisuke can say anything. “And why did you save me? I was a –”

 _Monster_ , he can still hear Inoue screaming, see the bow Ishida had pointed in his face when he first woke up.

“It would be highly hypocritical of me to judge you by the consequences of my own actions,” Kisuke says softly.

Ichigo’s head snaps up at that, and only then does he remember he’s still tied down. “Then why the restraints?” he demands. “If it’s not –”

_Because you were scared of me –_

He has the rare honour of seeing Kisuke’s eyes widen with shock. “No!” he shouts, and the Benihime-red ropes are suddenly gone. “You were delirious, and I had to stop you from hurting yourself –”

Ichigo tries to sit up, to see Kisuke’s face better, but he almost passes out at the white-hot pain lancing down his spine. Kisuke lunges forwards, catching Ichigo before he could collapse onto his face, and lowers him gently down onto the futon again.

“Your Hollow regeneration was taking care of it, I just had to make sure you didn’t thrash around and reopen any of your healing wounds.” He fumbles for an open jar of what Ichigo recognises as healing salve, nearly dropping it. “I couldn’t – your regeneration would reject my reiatsu as foreign, so the only thing I can do is wait –”

Ichigo closes his eyes, breathing through the pain. He’s been badly injured before, but he’s never quite felt like this, not even after the battle’s over and the adrenaline crash stopped numbing the pain.

“What – what kind of injury is it?”

Kisuke’s pause is telling.

“Just tell me,” Ichigo prompts. He’s tired, all of a sudden, so tired that he just wants to lie down and sleep, and part of him recognises it as a sign that his body’s undergoing some intensive healing.

“You’re, ah, missing half of your spine,” Kisuke says, almost delicately.

Ichigo considers that information. He should probably feel more horrified, but as things stand, he’s literally just come back from the dead. A broken spine is going to be a walk in the park in comparison.

“That explains why I can’t feel my legs,” he muses. “How long do you think that will take to heal?”

“About a day or so,” Kisuke answers readily, no hesitation this time.

That doesn’t sound too bad. Ichigo nods and succumbs to the siren call of sleep.

☆☆☆☆☆

Ichigo opens his eyes.

He’s alone for once, he notices immediately. The lights have been turned off, and he can see a crescent moon outside the window, leaving just barely enough light to see by.

He turns head to the other side gingerly, but there’s none of that sharp stabbing pain he’s grown to expect. This isn’t the first time he’s woken up since, ah, the revelation, but this is definitely the first time he’s done so without any pain. Ichigo tries not to blush at the thought of the other few times, when he’d moved too fast and Kisuke had to catch him every single time.

Ichigo experimentally wriggles his toes, pleased to feel the softness of the futon beneath him.

Emboldened, he shifts a little more, and then carefully hoists himself onto his elbows. There’s a little bit of a pulling ache that signifies newly-grown skin, but nothing to suggest an injury. Maybe he’s fully recovered?

Well, there’s only one way to find out. Gritting his teeth, Ichigo slowly pushes himself up into a sitting position, but it looks like he has indeed recovered fully. Nothing hurts at all. He wouldn’t want to get into a spar any time soon, but normal movements seem to be fine.

And it didn’t even take a full day.

Speaking of the blond, he wonders where Kisuke is. Perhaps there had been a medical emergency at the Fourth that required his attention?

Maybe he’ll go surprise Kisuke. Ichigo stretches luxuriously, vowing never to take his back for granted again.

His foot comes into contact with something, which rolls across the tatami mats.

Ichigo picks it up, squinting, and only then realises it’s the jar of healing salve Kisuke’s been using on his back to speed up the healing.

Unbidden, his cheeks heat up.

☆

_He awoke to careful hands trailing down his back, soothing the pain with something that felt wonderfully cool against his heated skin._

_Those hands slid lower, and Ichigo could no longer pretend he was still asleep when they parted the cheeks of his ass without any hesitation. He breathed harshly through his nose, barely holding back a whimper._

_“Am I hurting you?” Kisuke asked._

_“N-no,” Ichigo managed. He could feel the close scrutiny, and it was doing, uh, things to certain parts of his anatomy._

_Hurry up, hurry up, he mentally pleaded._

_He sensed Kisuke’s distracted nod, and then really did make a noise when he felt some kind of cool gel being spread over his ass and inner thighs. Kisuke’s actions were rote and clinical, and therefore it was entirely Ichigo’s own fault that he shivered when Kisuke swept a gel-coated finger over his rim._

_He really needed to jerk off later._

_“I’m sorry,” Kisuke said, completely missing the target altogether. “I’ll be more gentle.”_

_Please, harder, Ichigo thought wildly, clenching his teeth to make sure he didn’t accidentally say it out loud. Give me a finger –_

☆

Ichigo feels his cheeks _burn_ at the very memory, but he’s still completely naked, and there’s no hiding the way his cock is beginning to swell with distinct _interest_.

He’ll… he can make this quick. He’s horny enough that it’s probably not going to take very long at all, and at least then he doesn’t have to walk into the Fourth while trying to hide a burgeoning erection.

They haven’t done anything for weeks, other than that quick handjob the day – no, two days ago, before Kyōraku’s summons, before everything’s changed. And it’s not like they’ve been having a lot of sex before that, but at least Ichigo had been regularly getting off before they came to Soul Society, and his body _misses_ that.

He nearly knocks the jar of salve over when he flops back down onto his stomach, arranges himself back into that position in his memories. He can still sense the faint echoes of Kisuke’s reiatsu in the room, and if he closes his eyes, it’s as if Kisuke is right there watching him finger himself.

Ichigo _moans_.

It’s too loud in the deafening silence of the room, too drawn-out to be mistaken as a sound of pain, but he can’t help it; it just feels so ridiculously _good_ –

He bites down on the pillow to muffle the sounds of his enjoyment, but it’s only a half-hearted attempt, there’s nobody around anyway. Kisuke’s hands had been so warm and careful on his ass, and he imagines Kisuke’s behind him now, those clever fingers teasing at his hole instead of his own, watching Ichigo squirm on the futon with those gorgeous eyes blown black with desire.

Ichigo cants his hips up for a better angle, his free hand dropping between his legs. It’s not going to take long now, with the dual stimulation –

The door slides open.

☆☆☆☆☆

“Ichigo?”

The paper he’s still holding falls to the floor, forgotten.

It’s only been an hour or so since he retired to the kitchen, after he’s sure Ichigo is no longer in need of anything other than sleep. The paperwork won’t do itself, especially not with what Kisuke has planned. He thought he heard some noises coming from their bedroom, though, and came back to check on Ichigo.

Kisuke isn’t sure what he expected to see, but it’s definitely not Ichigo with his legs spread wide open with a finger up his ass. He’s certainly never going to be able to look at healing salve the same way again.

“ _Kisuke_ ,” Ichigo gasps, and for a moment Kisuke isn’t even sure if Ichigo is talking to him or just caught up in a fantasy. “Kisuke, I –”

His hand doesn’t stop moving, but the angle’s not the best, Kisuke can see that at a glance. Ichigo’s not going to be able to hit his prostate that way, and if he keeps trying to twist around to reach for it, it’s going to put too much on his newly-healed spine.

Kisuke shakes his hair out of his face, dropping to his knees beside Ichigo.

“Here, let me.”

Ichigo _grinds_ down against the futon with a choked cry when Kisuke gently tugs his hand out and replaces it with his own fingers. Kisuke has to bite his own lip when two fingers slip in with barely any resistance, all the way to the first knuckle. Ichigo’s reiatsu flares wildly, like a gale that would’ve knocked Kisuke over if he hasn’t pre-emptively raised his own reiatsu to compensate. For all that everyone likes to joke about his reiatsu control, Ichigo never really _loses_ it except during times of heightened emotion – like now.

Kisuke fumbles at the ties of his own sleep robe, glad that he doesn’t have hakama on. It’s a chilly night in December, but the room is practically steaming with the heat of their combined reiatsu, and it’s almost, almost a _relief_ to get his own clothes off, to drop a hand between his own legs and _squeeze_ –

Ichigo hisses something that sounds like an approval. He’s rutting steadily against the futon underneath him, his cheek smushed awkwardly against his pillow.

Kisuke allows himself a single moment of weakness, dragging the heavy weight of his cock along Ichigo’s bared hole. The tip catches on the rim, almost popping inside, and Ichigo twitches his hips backwards feebly with a loud plea. It doesn’t work; Kisuke’s cockhead skitters off the slick edge, and Kisuke locks his knees in place so that he can’t thrust forwards any further.

“You’ve just recovered,” his words escape him in a low, raspy growl. “I will not risk reopening your wounds.”

Ichigo wails wordlessly, his reiatsu a storm of need. “Just the tip,” he gasps. “ _Please_ –”

Kisuke bites his lip hard enough that he may have drawn blood, but he’s too far gone to care –

The tip of his cock pops through the first ring of muscle, and Ichigo’s entire body _shudders_. He clenches down reflexively in a way that makes Kisuke see stars, and he has to _fight_ the instinct to bury himself deeper, to fuck Ichigo the way he’s practically _begging_ him to.

It takes all of his not-inconsiderable self-control to pull _out_ , to work a hand over his cock until he’s coming, just like that, all over Ichigo’s pink and puffy hole. Ichigo makes a high-pitched, shocked noise when the first hot spurt of come hits his thighs – but Kisuke’s not done yet.

Ichigo may have more reiatsu than Kisuke can ever hope to have, but Kisuke is not without some tricks of his own. He flares his own reiatsu until it’s practically a tangible presence, a velvety sheath wrapped around Ichigo’s cock, and then he _squeezes_.

With a garbled of scream of Kisuke’s name, Ichigo comes.

☆☆☆☆☆

“Will you accompany me to dinner tomorrow – ah, tonight?”

Ichigo cracks an eye open. He’s pleasantly sore, and kind of sticky in places he would normally mind, but he’s too blissed out to care at the moment. “Isn’t that doing things backwards?”

Kisuke looks a little awkward, but the tiny crooked smile on his face is genuine. “I was under the impression, that is…” he trails off. “I have obtained tickets to A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Globe Theatre for tonight, if it would please you to accompany me?”

Ichigo almost bowls him over in his haste to agree.


	5. Chapter 5

Ichigo’s grinning broadly as they step out of the Globe Theatre, his hands waving animatedly as he illustrates a point. He can’t _believe_ – how in the world did Kisuke wrangle them practically front-row tickets for his favourite play? How long has he been planning this?

Instead of finding a side alley to open a Senkaimon, as Ichigo has been expecting, Kisuke steers them towards the bank of the River Thames. His pace is slow and unhurried, like he has no plans to get back to Soul Society any time soon.

The riverbank is so gorgeous at night, dotted with the lights of a bustling city, so unlike the river that flows through Karakura that Ichigo’s heart barely twinges. Maybe he’s finally made his peace with his mother’s passing.

Or maybe it has something to do with the way Kisuke has an arm draped companionably over his shoulders, holding him far closer than usual in deference to the late December chill. Maybe it’s the sheer joy of knowing there are no Hollows, no emergencies, no one to recognise them in this foreign land – maybe it’s the slow pool of liquid heat in his belly and the gossamer-light way Kisuke’s reiatsu playfully brushes over his skin that lets Ichigo know unequivocally that he’s getting laid tonight.

They meander down the riverbank, just another nameless, faceless couple taking an evening stroll, and Ichigo’s heart is so full he thinks he might burst. He casts around for a distraction, because it would be poor taste to kiss Kisuke in public, and –

“Oh, hey, isn’t that London Bridge?”

Kisuke squints at the metal contraption, looking vaguely bemused. Ichigo supposes he can’t really blame him, but wait…

“Is this your first time outside Japan too?”

Slowly, Kisuke nods.

“We should definitely come back, then,” Ichigo informs him decisively. “There’s so much to see, so much to explore; one night isn’t anywhere near enough.”

Kisuke hums in what sounds like agreement, but the little smile playing about his lips makes Ichigo’s heart skip a beat. He shoves at Kisuke, looking away so that he won’t be tempted to pull him in for a kiss, and only then belatedly realises that they’ve turned down another street.

Ichigo tilts his head up… and _up_.

“The Shard? Are they even open this late?”

They aren’t stopped on their way in, though, and Ichigo spots what looks like a couple of tourists waiting for one of the elevators. Well, he’s certainly not going to turn down the opportunity to do a little bit more sight-seeing before they have to head back to Soul Society.

The elevators are completely made of glass, which makes for a _brilliant_ birds’-eye view of the River Thames. Ichigo has his eyes glued to the glass for the entire ascent.

They’re so high up, it’s _amazing_.

He almost doesn’t notice when they step out of the elevator, because there are _windows_ everywhere that he can press his nose up against.

“Good evening, Urahara-san. Welcome to Shangri-La at the Shard. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

Ichigo spins around so fast he nearly overbalances.

Wait, _what_?

He thinks for a wild moment that he’s maybe parsed the English words wrong or something, but the reality is that Kisuke is grinning at him from the reception counter, eyes sparkling with mischief, and Ichigo almost forgives him.

Almost.

“Like you said, it’s our first time out of the country. It would be a shame to leave after just one night.”

Ichigo stares. He’s not quite sure whether he wants to punch Kisuke or to kiss him, or maybe both.

Both sounds good.

He steps forwards, just as another door opens and out comes a man dressed in a full suit.

“Good evening sirs, my name is Rajan, I will be your personal butler for the duration of your stay. Your luggage has already been sent up to your room; if you would follow me this way please.”

Ichigo scowls. That bastard Kisuke – he’s definitely planned all of this out ahead of time!

Rajan looks faintly alarmed.

With some effort, Ichigo modulates his expression into something less murderous, although he doesn’t forget to shoot Kisuke a poisonous glare.

Kisuke pauses.

“You do not like surprise?” he asks.

Ichigo isn’t sure why Kisuke is speaking English all of a sudden, but he follows suit. “I don’t like to be surprised,” he corrects. And then, before Kisuke can try to backtrack and maybe even _cancel_ this whole trip, Ichigo shakes his head and adds, “but thank you. A whole day in London – it’s perfect.”

Kisuke looks faintly abashed, and alarm bells are going off in Ichigo’s head before he even says, “One week.”

“ _What_?” Ichigo demands, slipping back into Japanese so that he can _properly_ express his feelings. “But your division –”

“Isane-fukutaichō is perfectly capable of holding her own, and she knows how to contact me if she needs me,” Kisuke responds in the same language. “You’re far more important.”

Ichigo turns a bright, flaming red.

“You can’t just _say_ things like that,” he protests feebly, averting his eyes, though he does start walking forwards again.

“Things like...” Kisuke lets the sentence hang in the air, a wide grin on his face. Ichigo resolves not to help him finish that _clearly_ rhetorical thought.

He’s so busy staring at the frankly intimidating panel of elevator buttons that he completely forgets the most cardinal rule of Urahara Kisuke: always have a backup plan.

“Things like, I love you?”

Ichigo gives in to the urge to punch his shoulder.

☆☆☆☆☆

Rajan thinks he’s a pretty decent butler, as butlers go. It’s a dying occupation in modern London, but he’s lucky, he even likes his job most of the time.

It does not make it any easier to figure out whether he ought to intervene. As a rule, they stay out of the personal conflicts of their guests – but Urahara’s companion’s face is blotchy red with anger, his tone biting, and he is trapped with them in a _glass elevator_ hundreds of metres off the ground.

Without warning, Urahara snags his companion’s waist and yanks the younger man almost off his feet to crash into him.

Rajan braces himself in the corner, just in case... but nothing happens. The companion clutches at Urahara’s shoulder for a moment before he finds his footing again. His face, what little Rajan can see of it in profile, and his ear are both a dark pink, but he doesn’t try to shove Urahara away.

“Ichigo,” Urahara murmurs, and presses a kiss to his temple.

Oh. _Ohhhhh._

That wasn’t anger he’s been seeing, that was _embarrassment_. Rajan relaxes a little, and even dares to move out of his corner once he’s sure there are no flailing limbs coming his way in the imminent future.

Luckily, at that moment, the elevator chimes and the doors slide open.

Rajan clears his throat. “Mr Urahara, Mr... Ichigo,” he tries. Urahara’s companion looks over, so that is indeed his name, then. “Would sirs like a tour of your suite?”

Ichigo glances over at Urahara, to which Urahara tips his head in a gesture of _whatever you like_ that even Rajan can understand.

“No, thank you for your help,” Ichigo tells him.

Rajan nods. “Certainly, sir. Will that be all?”

Ichigo nods back.

“Then, good night. If sirs require anything, please do not hesitate to dial extension number #9001 to reach me.”

Instead of going back into the elevator, he swipes his card to enter the passageway next to the entrance hall, which leads to the personal butler’s rooms.

Urahara and Ichigo are... strange, he thinks, but not a bad sort of strange. They certainly act more down-to-earth than most of the rich people he’s served over the years in his capacity as a personal butler at Shangri-La, The Shard.

Maybe it’s the fact that they’re Japanese? The Japanese have always been widely-known to be unfailingly courteous. Rajan strips out of his suit jacket and sits down in front of his laptop. He had better brush up on his Japanese tonight. Usually he’d have done his preparatory work earlier, but Mr Urahara had literally made a last-minute booking yesterday, and Rajan only found out about his new assignment this morning.

☆☆☆☆☆

Kisuke, that bastard…

Ichigo scrubs a hand through his hair, glad to be able to exchange the stifling suit for his usual sleep wear. Maybe it’s the fault of all that time spent running around as a shinigami, but Ichigo’s not a fan of multiple tight layers these days, even if the memory of Kisuke giving him an appreciative once-over makes heat pool low in his belly.

He stands at the window for a long while, just enjoying the sight of London spread out beneath him, when it finally occurs to him that the window in the lounge is far bigger and Kisuke’s continuous absence is a conspicuous hole beside him.

His breath leaves him in a rush when he exits the bedroom. The lounge is still as amazing as he remembered, yes, but Kisuke – sans suit jacket – is standing at the bay window, silhouetted against the night sky, and to him that is arguably an even more amazing sight.

Kisuke must’ve heard him coming, but he doesn’t move from his spot, not even when Ichigo drapes himself all over Kisuke’s back and wraps his arms around Kisuke’s waist.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” he can’t help but recite, even knowing that Kisuke doesn’t understand the reference. Speaking of which…

“I didn’t know you can speak English.”

Kisuke turns his head slightly, his expression rueful in a manner that suggests he thinks Ichigo is about to punch him. “I… didn’t, before last night?”

He’s right to be wary, Ichigo concedes, but he’s sure he can make Kisuke pay in ways that don’t involve cockblocking himself.

Kisuke’s eyes widen in surprise when Ichigo chooses to surge forwards instead, nipping at his bottom lip and pinning his body against the glass for better leverage. He shudders at the chill of the glass, but Ichigo is putting his entire body weight into it and refuses to give him the space to manoeuvre.

He’ll soon be shivering for a different reason.

“You look good in the suit tonight,” he breathes against Kisuke’s ear. “You should wear form-fitting clothes more often.”

He tugs Kisuke’s shirt tails out from his trousers, slipping a hand underneath for emphasis. Like any captain-class shinigami, Kisuke keeps his body in fighting shape, even if the loose shape of his preferred clothing hides it most of the time. Ichigo runs an appreciative palm over the hard planes of his abdominal muscles, feeling them spasm briefly under his touch.

“You know my hands are empty,” Ichigo coaxes, leaving his palm resting lightly on Kisuke’s belly. “And I’d never hurt you.”

Kisuke’s body is a hard line of tension in his arms, quivering like a tightly-strung bow, until he abruptly relaxes.

“I know,” he says, tipping his head back onto Ichigo’s shoulder.

Tacit permission given, Ichigo lets his palm slide higher, enjoying the feel of heated bare skin. “Take your shirt off?” he suggests, making sure to keep his tone a light question rather than an order, but Kisuke doesn’t hesitate to obey anyway.

Ichigo slips the shirt off his own shoulders, steps back just enough to toss the garment in the direction of a chair, and then gently but firmly pushes Kisuke’s bare torso into the glass.

Kisuke’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, but he doesn’t make a sound, even though Ichigo can see the way his nipples have pebbled instantly in the reflection. He just presses his cheek against the cool glass, his hands flexing slowly where they rest at his sides, like he’s deciding where he wants to put them.

Ichigo kisses his nape, and idly flicks one of those perk little nipples with his thumbnail.

“A week, really?” he asks conversationally, both as a distraction and because he actually wants to know the answer. “Are you sure the Fourth will survive a week without you?”

Kisuke opens his mouth to speak, but what comes out is a hiss instead, possibly because Ichigo has also very kindly just nudged his hips into the glass. He’s made up his mind to stop playing around, Ichigo notes, and waits for the moment Kisuke’s levering himself off the glass with both palms to suddenly drop his hand lower, cupping what turns out to be a sizeable bulge.

Kisuke freezes, just a moment, which gives Ichigo the time to pop the button on his lovely tailored slacks and unzip it.

Then he actually has to lean over Kisuke’s shoulder for a better look, because his fingers just found –

“Really, a full tailored suit, and you draw the line at modern underwear?” Ichigo asks, tugging on the fundoshi for emphasis.

He might have used a bit too much force in that tug, he reflects, as the ties holding fundoshi together slip apart between his fingers.

Kisuke jerks back violently when his cock springs free, slapping wetly against the glass. He freezes again when he realises this new position means he’s practically rutting shamelessly against Ichigo’s own erection. He bites his lip, his brow furrowing slightly like he can’t decide if the loss of dignity is worth it.

Ichigo frowns too, because whatever that’s left in his hands feels rather unusual –

He pushes Kisuke’s shoulders against the glass absently, taking a step back for a better look.

“... wow,” he finally manages to say, once he finds his voice again and is sure he’s able to make a sound that’s not an embarrassing moan. “I didn’t know Shakespeare did it for you that bad.”

Kisuke laughs shakily. He seems to have given up struggling for the moment, pillowing his forehead on one nicely-muscled arm. His voice, though, is perfectly even when he responds, “It’s not _Shakespeare_ I was expecting to be done by.”

“So I see,” Ichigo notes, and spreads his ass cheeks apart with both hands to get a better look at the butt plug. There’s a flush high on Kisuke’s cheekbones, but he doesn’t try to conceal himself from Ichigo’s frank appraisal.

“You’re going to need more prep than that,” Ichigo finally points out. He lets Kisuke go completely, fumbling at his own belt.

“If I wore anything bigger, I’d have needed to drag you into the bathroom during intermission,” Kisuke says equally drily. He pulls the slacks off completely, tosses them over the back of the couch together with his abandoned shirt, and bends to rummage in his bag.

Ichigo almost gets himself tangled up in his pants in his haste to pull it off, and he curses.

Kisuke’s shoulders shake with laughter, but that’s okay, Ichigo is absolutely going to get him back for that. He sheds the last of his clothes, grabs Kisuke by the waist while he’s still beginning to turn around, and topples them both onto the lounge recliner.

“Hi.” He grins.

Above him, Kisuke wets his lips. It’s almost a nervous gesture, except his pupils are blown wide, just a thin rim of silver visible. One of his hands is braced against Ichigo’s chest, where he barely caught himself during the fall, the other still holding a bottle of lube.

“… hi.”

Ichigo’s grin widens. He adjusts their positions, his hands around Kisuke’s hips, until he’s lying on the recliner with Kisuke’s knees on either side of him, straddling his abdomen.

Wordlessly, Kisuke offers him the lube.

“Just relax,” Ichigo coaxes. “I’ve got you.”

He intends to make good on that promise. The past few days must’ve been hard on Kisuke, having to take care of Ichigo as he heals, and then arranging for a surprise trip that Ichigo hadn’t even known he wanted until he got here. If he wants a good fucking then by the gods, Ichigo will make him scream in ecstasy tonight.

Ichigo coats his fingers liberally with lube, tugs the plug out, and shoves three fingers in at one go.

Kisuke gasps, and Ichigo just manages to catch his expression going blank, the way it does when he’s struggling to process his pleasure, before he hides his face against Ichigo’s shoulder. Ichigo doesn’t mind, though, not when Kisuke’s cock rubs against his abs, already slick with precome.

“You really should have gone for a bigger plug,” he muses, gently scissoring his fingers. “Then I’ll be able to slip right in. You’d like that, won’t you?”

“Maybe – maybe a little bit too much,” Kisuke pants against his ear. His hips shift, like he’s trying to stop himself from seeking friction against Ichigo’s abdomen.

He’s too well-controlled for just about anyone else to pick up the signs, but _oh_ , can Ichigo read his tells. “You’ve been fantasising about climbing into my lap and riding me the entire night, haven’t you?”

Before Kisuke can decide on an answer, Ichigo pulls his fingers out, and carefully guides his cock in. Kisuke’s breath hitches the tiniest bit when Ichigo rocks his hips, sliding all the way inside Kisuke. At this angle, he can no longer keep his face hidden from view, but Kisuke keeps his eyes downcast, his cheeks dusted a faint pink.

Arousal’s a good look on his face.

“You good?”

Without meeting Ichigo’s eyes, Kisuke nods.

He makes a tiny little noise when Ichigo bounces him on his cock for a bit, but it’s not enough, the leverage isn’t anywhere near what Ichigo _knows_ he needs from experience. Ichigo makes an irritated noise at the back of his throat, hauls Kisuke up, forces his thighs open and _slams_ his back against the glass, hard enough that it shudders under the impact.

Startled, Kisuke makes a grab for his shoulders, his head half-turned like he wants to make sure the glass hasn’t cracked from the force. If he’s still capable of higher-order thinking like that, Ichigo’s clearly not doing a very good job.

“We’re shinigami,” Ichigo reminds him drily. “We can stand on air. And your bankai can fix it later.”

Kisuke opens his mouth, no doubt to snark something back, but Ichigo doesn’t have the patience for banter right now. The simmering heat low in his belly is demanding he doing something about it, and he’s done _waiting_. He angles his hips, positions them properly, and then uses gravity to drop Kisuke onto his cock hard enough that Kisuke’s entire body twists in shocked pleasure and instead of whatever he was going say, he makes this tiny, desperate _mewl_.

Belatedly, he tries to raise a hand to cover his mouth, but Ichigo’s not having any of that.

“ _Stop_ ,” he barks, in a tone authoritative enough that Kisuke freezes like he’s conditioned to obey.

The best way to stop Kisuke from thinking, Ichigo’s discovered from experience, is to give him so much stimuli simultaneously that even he can’t process them all in time. He works his shoulders, loosening them, and then lets himself go, his world narrowing down to the tight heat around him. The pace is brutal enough that Kisuke can’t do anything but cry out feebly, trapped effectively between a freezing pane of glass and an inexorable burning force.

He starts coming, just like that, his cock untouched, his face twisted in almost-painful ecstasy.

Ichigo curses viciously, one hand clamping down on Kisuke’s thigh, hard enough that his fingers will leave bruises. He’s close, close enough, that the sight alone sets him off after a few more thrusts.

Kisuke slumps back against the glass, barely propping himself up, his legs wrapped around Ichigo’s waist. He’s gasping for breath, eyes closed, and even as Ichigo takes a step back to admire the view his cock gives a weak twitch, dribbling a little more come.

It’s honestly kind of mind-blowingly hot. If Ichigo isn’t so tired, he’d be up for another round.

“You good?” he asks, and coaxes a little more strength from his legs so that he can at least get them into the bedroom.

“Nnnngh,” Kisuke mumbles.

“Right,” Ichigo grunts, and then drops him on the bed and goes to find a wash cloth.

He can’t help but stop to appreciate the sight when he gets back. Kisuke hasn’t even moved to cover himself up, thighs splayed obscenely open for Ichigo’s perusal like he’s too far gone to care, his own come drying sloppily all over his abdomen and Ichigo’s come leaking from his well-abused ass. Ichigo doesn’t think he’s ever seen his lover reduced to this complete loss of control before.

He cleans them both up, and then gives up on trying to pull any clothes on. The sheets have a ridiculous thread count, soft and cool against his naked skin, comfortable enough that he drifts off almost immediately.

Maybe he can get a repeat performance tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image credit: Shangri-La @ The Shard, London


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image credit: Shangri-La @ The Shard, London

Rajan has been working in the hospitality industry since graduation.

Which is to say, he’s seen many people during his career, mostly rich, occasionally hot. His _job_ is to figure out their personalities and change himself to act accordingly to his best guess of their wishes.

He thought he had Mr Urahara and his companion pegged on the first night. A middle-aged man in a tailored suit who throws around dosh like it grows on trees, and a young man who looks like he could be in university? What else could they be?

He was _very_ wrong.

☆☆☆☆☆

_The morning after their arrival…_

Rajan isn’t surprised, to say the least, when he only received the summons for breakfast at ten o’ clock. It was close to midnight by the time Urahara and his companion had checked in, after all, and neither of them had looked tired enough to go straight to sleep.

Ichigo is curled up on one of the couches when he arrived, dressed in a well-worn T-shirt and a pair of knee-length shorts. He doesn’t look like someone who didn’t get enough sleep the previous night, for which Rajan is grateful. Even if it’s a hazard of the job, he doesn’t want to know about his clients’ sex lives more than he has to, even if they’re hot as hell.

 _Especially_ if they’re hot as hell.

Ichigo is halfway into his sandwich when he looks up and asks, “Do you have recommendations for Shakespeare?”

Rajan, an offer to call a cab to Regent Street on the tip of his tongue, is so thrown by the question that he doesn’t manage to keep his composure. “What, William Shakespeare?”

“Yes.” Ichigo frowns, repeating the words slowly, “Willee-am Shake-spearu.” His accent distorts the syllables a little, but the words are unmistakeable.

“There’s the Globe Theatre,” Rajan says slowly, on autopilot.

Ichigo nods. “We went there yesterday, to watch _A Midsummer Night's Dream_.” He grins a little to himself, quoting, “Lord, what fools these mortals be!”

Rajan stares at him, trying to re-evaluate everything he thought he knew about his newest clients. “Well, if you’re up for a day trip out of London, Stratford-upon-Avon is a great place to visit for someone who’s a Shakespeare fan.”

“Stratford,” Ichigo repeats thoughtfully. “The place where he was born?”

Rajan blinks, and just barely manages to hide his surprise. “Y-yes. There is now a museum there, and a bookstore dedicated to his works.”

“Okay.” Ichigo pulls out a pen and a notebook from his bag. “How do I get there?”

“Take a train from Marylebone station –” Rajan begins, and then pauses. “I can either call you a cab to Marylebone, or you can take the Underground, although that can be difficult to navigate –”

“That’s fine,” Ichigo says absently, circling the stations on a copy of the Underground map. “Tokyo is a lot worse.”

Rajan can’t imagine Urahara, who didn’t blink at dropping ten grand a night on a hotel room for a week, letting his boyfriend take public transport on a regular basis, but Ichigo does look like he knows what he’s doing.

“You’re a fan of Shakespeare?”

Ichigo _lights up_ , which answers the question more adequately than his actual words. He’s genuinely knowledgeable on the subject too, Rajan realises with a jolt, and berates himself for passing judgement prematurely.

“Are you studying English literature?”

A wistful smile flits across Ichigo’s face. “I would like to, I think,” he admits, looking away. Huh. Rajan could’ve pegged him for a broke student who got a sugar daddy so that he can go to university. “But not right now. Someone has to make sure Kisuke doesn’t work himself to death.”

He doesn’t look embarrassed, or ashamed, or in it for the money. No, with that little fond smile on his face, he looks like he’s…

Ichigo cocks his head, like he’s hearing something Rajan can’t hear. “Ah, speaking of him –”

The bedroom door swings open and Urahara saunters out, rubbing his eyes.

He’s also completely naked.

Rajan… _stares_ , his mouth dropping open. The fact that he’s seated and Urahara is standing meant that unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on how he looks at things – his half-hard cock is at eye-level, curving gently up towards…

How much time does Urahara spend at the gym to get an eight-pack _that_ chiselled?!

“Uh, Kisuke,” Ichigo begins.

Urahara lowers his hand and takes in the scene.

There’s a beat of silence, and then a blur of motion – Rajan could’ve sworn Urahara just _teleported_ , can humans even move that fast? – and Urahara’s back inside the bedroom, shouting a question that Rajan can’t understand but can guess the meaning of.

_Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t alone?_

Ichigo rises from the couch, shouting back something in Japanese that’s too fast for Rajan to catch, and then switches to English. “Sorry, I need to –” he gestures vaguely at the bedroom door, and barely waits for Rajan’s nod of acknowledgement before he’s headed into the bedroom.

Left alone in the sitting room, Rajan shakes his head furiously, clearing it somewhat, and then beats a hasty retreat.

☆☆☆☆☆

Ichigo had not been joking.

Not that Rajan thought he’d been; nobody asks that many detailed questions about how to get to Stratford if they did not, in fact, intend to _go to_ Stratford.

It’s still a surprise to come into the suite bearing dinner – grass-fed filet mignon and pot-caught native lobster, but served with miso soup instead of cream of wild mushroom – to see Ichigo unwrapping a gold-embossed limited collector’s edition of Shakespeare’s works while Urahara types away on a laptop, having been relegated to a separate couch altogether.

There’s another set of books balanced on the couch, well-thumbed like an oft-read favourite, and Rajan may not be able to read Japanese but Shakespeare’s name is printed in English letters along the bottom.

Ichigo waves Rajan at the table absently, nose buried in his new acquisition and, apparently, comparing it to the translation he already owns.

“Can I borrow that?”

Ichigo stares up at him from over his pile of books.

Urahara stares up at him over the lid of his laptop.

Rajan wants to slap himself.

“Sure, when we’re not here,” Ichigo says, before Rajan can muster up an apology for how incredibly inappropriate that comment had been.

And, apparently, that’s that.

☆☆☆☆☆

It’s New Year’s Eve tonight.

Rajan’s still at work, but he’s actually pretty all right with it. He’s got leave starting in two days, his mates are doing the get-together next weekend so that he can make it, and his workplace has got a fantastic view of the countdown and the fireworks.

Urahara and Ichigo had gone out earlier, still dressed in those light jackets like they don’t understand the meaning of the word ‘cold’. Maybe Rajan should drop by Uniqlo to try out something from their HEATTECH line, if that’s the kind of effect he can expect.

He crosses over to the couch, his inspection of the rooms complete. The Shakespeare works are lying on the coffee table as promised, and Ichigo did say they’d be out till late.

He cracks _Taming of the Shrew_ open, marvelling at the feel of the heavy paper, the smell of a new book. The pages flip easily through his hands, a sure sign that Ichigo’s already leafed through this book a couple of times, his attention practically searing a spiritual imprint into the pages.

A flash of _something_ in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and Rajan looks out of the window. He could’ve sworn he just saw...

Nah. Must be a trick of the light.

After all, how can anyone be sitting on top of the Big Ben?

☆☆☆☆☆

“We should really work on your reiatsu control.”

Ichigo groans, burrowing into Kisuke’s side, careful not to spill his sundae. “Not after I just spent the last ten minutes cleaning this place up, thanks.”

“You’re the one who protested about all the bird poop,” Kisuke points out, but he wraps an arm around Ichigo’s shoulders, so he’s not actually upset. Or maybe it’s just because he wants to steal a bite of the sundae. Not that Ichigo’s complaining, he did buy one big enough to share for that exact reason.

Down in Victoria Embankment far below, the crowd is cheering, the noise so loud that Ichigo doesn’t even have to look at his watch, he can just listen to the countdown.

He leans over and kisses Kisuke on the lips as the first sparks of fireworks light up the sky.

“Happy New Year, Kisuke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that did not make it into this fic:  
> \- Jack the Ripper walking tour + ghost “Hollows”  
> \- a random ghost invasion of London  
> \- a swimming pool incident involving tittering females, oblivious Ichigo, and Kisuke working on his laptop while in a bathrobe  
> \- The only thing hotter than a Shakespeare nerd is a Shakespeare nerd who can beat up armed robbers a la Hotel Continental style

**Author's Note:**

> [cywscross's UraIchi Discord server](https://discordapp.com/invite/ADFnKTZ#_=_) | [Starrie's fic sneak preview server](https://discord.gg/8yJVmbD) | [Starrie's Tumblr](http://starriewolf.tumblr.com/)


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